


Medicated

by counterheist



Series: Wherein Romano's Health is, at the Best of Times, Tentative [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M, aka True Love, failed sexytimes, germany will need so many tax forms to calm himself down from this, japan has seen this in a manga, mentions of vomiting, never do that, never give meds to someone without their knowledge, okay, silliness, spain controls the weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/16221.html?thread=47971165">From the kink meme</a>, the sequel to <a href="http://counterheist.livejournal.com/575.html">Memory Loss</a>! All is right with the world... until something worse than amnesia happens to Romano. It's up to Spain to get Romano's emotions back... he'll need help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is Unsettling

When Italy Romano woke up one morning in Spain’s arms and didn’t even struggle to get away, Spain thought he had died and gone to heaven. He was a little sad, because he’d left a lot of business unfinished, and there was no one to take care of his tomato patch, and he hoped his 45 million citizens hadn’t had to die with him. That too. But on the other hand, heaven was a place where Romano didn’t kick him in the balls and call him a pervert every morning…

Death didn’t seem so bad.

When Spain tried to give Romano a kiss that morning, he was able to on his first try. This made him wonder whether the other angels would be okay with him playing his guitar instead of a harp ( _did musical instruments go to heaven with their owners?_ ). Because obviously Spain was dead. And he wasn’t much of a harp fan.

Except.

It could barely be called a kiss. In fact, if he couldn’t see Romano’s haircurl and his cute nose and the really big hickey he’d given him the night before, Spain would have thought that the person whose lip he was nibbling on wasn’t Romano at all. It felt more like Spain was kissing a fish ( _he could make the comparison because when they were younger, France had dared him to kiss a trout. Spain had done it. The trout had fainted_ ).

Spain pulled away because he’d rather not associate kissing Romano with fish. “Roma? Are you feeling alright? Are you sick?”

“Whatever.”

Okay, noncommittal. Romano was like that sometimes. It was part of his grumpy allure, like how he was always calling Spain names and punching him and refusing to put out and… “Are you sure?”

“I guess.”

And that was that. Or it would have been that if Spain hadn’t gone in for another round. Maybe Romano had woken up on the wrong side of the bed! That would explain things nicely. So Spain had brushed Romano’s hair out of his eyes with one hand, and had pulled Romano’s shirt up with the other. Even at his grumpiest, Romano couldn’t resist Spain trying to get him naked.

Spain thought it was pretty understandable.

But Romano sitting up and heading for the shower right as Spain started licking his ear was disheartening. And painful, because Spain had been startled by the sudden motion and had fallen off the bed. He’d made a pitiful noise after hitting his head on the hard flooring ( _”Romaaaaa”_ ), but Romano hadn’t even paused as he’d walked away.

Hadn’t paused, hadn’t started walking faster. It was terribly unlike Romano: if he was mad at Spain for some little incident Spain didn’t even remember, usually Romano would take great pleasure in kicking Spain while he was down. And laughing about it. And maybe taking pictures so he could remember getting one over on Spain later on. Alternatively, if Romano was only a little miffed at Spain for some little incident Spain didn’t even remember, he would at least stop for a few seconds after he huffed away, to allow Spain time to catch him.

Spain knew the rules. For the first time, _Romano_ was the one who was breaking them ( _and not even in the sexy way that Spain always did_ ).

The bathroom door shut on Spain’s thoughts, and he stared at it from the floor, upside-down. Romano never just _shut_ the bathroom door. Either he slammed it and locked it, or he left it a few tantalizing inches open so Spain could follow after him.

Spain stood up on uncertain legs and walked over to the bathroom Romano had disappeared into. He could hear the shower already running. He tried the door… it was unlocked. Unlocked, but for once Spain didn’t feel like saving water at all. He was too confused. What was Romano trying to tell him by being so… so… _calm_?

He needed to find out. He needed to fix it. He needed to find his phone in the mess of ( _cheerful_ ) laundry, ( _sort of cheerful_ ) papers and ( _cheerfully empty_ ) bottles of lubricant his bedroom had become.

Spain finally found his phone underneath a drawing of a giant smiling sun one of his younger citizens had given him. So forgetting that his government would take it as a manifestation of the Kingdom’s economy getting worse or some other civic trouble, Spain called in sick. He needed to find out what was bothering Romano. Or, more precisely, why _nothing_ was bothering Romano.

Panic set in in Madrid, in more ways than one.

By the time Romano got out of the shower, Spain was waiting for him in the kitchen. Not even with food, not that Romano cared. If he’d thought to stop and think why he didn’t care, Romano would have become incredibly alarmed. Actually, scratch that. If he’d thought to stop and think why he didn’t care, Romano wouldn’t have cared about the answer either way.

On a fundamental level, Spain had already figured that out. It was why he was wearing a coat and staring listlessly at the stove instead of cooking anything. It was why the steady patter of rain could be heard tapping on the windows. It was why the rain was tapping on the inside of the glass.

Unperturbed, Romano pulled up the hood of his jacket when he reached the kitchen. “Damp today.”

“Yeah.” Spain’s jacket had a hood too, but the water was nice enough not to hit him as it fell. “Hey Roma?”

“What?”

He hadn’t said it with even an ounce of impatience. All of a sudden, Spain felt lonely. Being in the same room as Romano now… it was almost like… almost like Romano didn’t even know who he was. Almost like Romano didn’t remember him anymore…

_Not. Again._

Spain jumped up as the thought hit his brain like lightning. “ **ROMA ROMA DO YOU REMEMBER ANYTHING FUCK DO YOU REMEMBER ME?!??** ”

Romano blinked. “Yeah.”

That wasn’t enough. “How much do you remember me?”

“You think I got amnesia again?”

He’d asked it flatly. Not inquisitively, not slightly annoyed that Spain was making him repeat himself. “Are you sure you don’t?”

Romano sat down at the table with a glass of milk. “Pretty much.”

Spain stared at the glass ( _with slight jealousy. It was getting more action than he had that morning_ ). Romano had poured his milk into a glass. But what about the vicious pleasure he got out of drinking milk straight from the bottle, which he sometimes did because he thought Spain didn’t like it, which Romano only thought because Spain had told him so, even though Spain really just liked watching the look of vicious pleasure Romano got because it was kind of cute in a mean-spirited way and so was Romano and… now Spain was thirsty too and he didn’t even know why. “Can I have some of that?”

“Sure.” Romano slid the glass over.

“Don’t be silly Roma, it’s not disgusting! I have my _tongue_ in your mouth all the time after all and—” Spain’s brain caught up with Romano’s mouth. He hadn’t protested sharing his drink. Spain felt like half of the things he had to say now were meaningless. “I mean. Thanks.”

Spain drank his milk miserably and pulled his phone out of his pocket again. It was bad if something was wrong with Romano that _wasn’t_ amnesia: that was the only ailment Spain _knew_ he knew how to fix!

He dialed the only nation he knew would know how to get into the mind of an Italy.

_RING_

_RING_

“Ve, Spain! Good morning!”

Spain smiled at the familiar voice. “Aw, good morning to you too Veneziano! That’s so cute of you to say.”

Giggling cascaded out of the phone’s speakers. “Ve, Spain, it’s really nice of you to call. We don’t talk often enough!”

“I know what you mean,” Spain chanced a glance over at Romano… who was drinking his milk without a concern in the world. He wasn’t even doing the jealous sneaking peek-out-of-the-corner-of-his-eye thing that he usually did when Spain talked to Veneziano. Spain missed it.

“But Spain, ve… why are you calling Germany?”

Huh? Oh yeah! He _hadn’t_ dialed Veneziano. “Oh that’s right! I wanted to borrow a book.”

“Ve, Spain, you mean one of his shitty dating b—” There was a scuffle on the other end of the line and Veneziano’s voice faded away. Only to be replaced by a deep, steadfast tone. “Spain. I apologize.”

Spain gave the same cheery greeting he’d given before. The sky outside his window got a little brighter, but inside his house was still umbrella weather. “Good morning Germany! Romano says hi too!”

“I doubt that.” Germany was right. “But good morning to you both. Is there any way I might be able to help you?”

“Ahhh… yeah! Romano’s acting really weird. Can you lend me one of your books?”

“…ah…” Spain waited expectantly. The other line remained silent for a long time. “…what books?”

“The ones about Italians! If it tells you about Italians it should work on an Italy too, right?” That was Spain’s hope. Romano had finished his milk at this point, and hadn’t stormed off impatiently, interrupted him or sworn at the rain messing up his designer shoes. Spain needed to know what was going on.

“No.”

He said it with such finality. Spain wondered what that was all about. “Germany?”

The voice was not what he was expecting. “Nope! It’s Veneziano!”

But Spain took it in stride. “Veneziano? Good morning!”

“Ve, good morning Spain! What’s wrong?”

Normally by now Romano would have torn Spain’s phone out of his hands. He would have cursed at his brother until Veneziano cried and probably would have ended the exchange by throwing Spain’s phone at a wall. Or the floor. “Something’s wrong with Roma.” Romano looked up at the sound of his name. “And it’s not amnesia this time, I checked!”

Veneziano knew panic when he heard it ( _he was somewhat of a connoisseur_ ). “Ve, we’ll be there right away!”

Several hours later, the Kingdom of Spain ushered the northern half of the Republic of Italy and the Federal Republic of Germany into his living room and offered them coffee. Veneziano accepted, Germany declined and Spain held on to his suspicious glass bottle as though it were a lifeline while he disappeared into the kitchen.

“Ve, Spain…” Germany hadn’t heard Veneziano sound so hesitant in years.

“Yes?” floated merrily out of the kitchen.

“Ve… is that cooking sherry you’re drinking?”

Spain returned with two cups of coffee balanced on a tray balanced on his left palm. His right hand clutched an empty bottle. “Not anymore!”

The grin was off-putting. Veneziano needed to find a way to say it that wouldn’t set Spain off. He was too slow. “Your grin is slightly off-putting.”

Spain blinked at Germany. “Oh?”

Suddenly, Germany wished he were smaller so hiding behind Veneziano would be more viable. Then he thought about it for a second. Another second later he was thoroughly ashamed by his wish and began wishing for the necessary paperwork to rescind it completely.

“Ve, Spain… where is my brother?” Spain pointed to a quiet corner of the room. On a second glance, Veneziano realized that his brother was sitting there, doing something on a computer. “You got him to work? Is that what’s so weird?” Wow, Spain was a really good influence after all!

“No.” Spain would have been a little freaked out if Romano had come to his house just to do work; but Romano wasn’t working. Romano was playing shooter games online. And losing. Badly. “He’s playing games with Prussia.”

Ignoring the disgruntled huff of “Brother promised he would clean his basement today!” from Germany, Veneziano carefully stood, took his coffee from Spain’s tray and drank it in one gulp. Eyeing the other cup, he downed that one too. Emboldened by the rush of caffeine, he walked over to Romano’s corner and stood behind him. “Ve, brother… you really suck at that.”

Romano hummed. “Kinda, yeah.”

Veneziano thought about fainting, but ultimately decided not to, because Germany was too far away to land on and Spain had hardwood floors. “You don’t have amnesia?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Ve, brother… am I annoying you right now?” The last time Veneziano had asked that question had been right before their unification. Romano had thrown a chicken at him.

“Not really.”

Even though he was sitting on the other side of the room, Germany managed to be fast enough to push a pillow underneath Veneziano’s head before he cracked it open on Spain’s living room floor. In the mean time, the light haze the sherry had left in Spain’s mind faded. All that remained were tired frustration and the fear that whatever happened to Romano was something Spain couldn’t fix.

“Did you see anyone suspicious yesterday, Romano?” Spain lept across the room, put both hands on Romano’s collar and pulled. Romano didn’t flinch. “Did anyone do anything weird to you, Romano? Does Boss need to bring out his axe, Romano?!?!” The two nations were nose-to-nose. Spain’s eyes were wide and his pupils were small. He looked two small steps or one mid-size stride away from frothing at the mouth.

Germany decided to deal with the important facts first. “I thought you said he still has his memories.”

Romano didn’t do anything about the closeness between his face and Spain’s. And in front of _guests_ too. “I do.”

Spain’s shoulders dropped as his muscles relaxed. “Oh.” He was being silly. But then again… “But I like saying Romano’s name. Loudly.” He winked at Germany and snuck a look out of the corner of his eye. But Romano wasn’t spluttering. He wasn’t even blushing. That was disappointing. “When we have sex.” Still nothing ( _unless he counted how red Germany was getting_ ).

On the floor, Veneziano’s eyes flew open. “Ve, now that you mention it… have you tried the thing you did that fixed brother last time?” He winked too, and Germany had to sit down for a moment.

Spain sneezed in the cold air and rubbed his hands together. “The way I found out something was wrong in the first place this morning was through a kiss, so I already know True Love’s Kisses won’t work here!” Which was really a shame, because Spain was _really_ good at them.

“Ve, Spain,” Veneziano tapped his chin and stared up at the ceiling before vaulting off the floor and onto the couch Germany had taken refuge on. “Have you tried True Love’s Heated Making Out On The Couch or True Love’s Full-On Groping? Ve… those ones work really really well, right Germany?” He nudged Germany’s midsection with his elbow. Germany barely felt it.

The embarrassment, however, he felt keenly. “…”

Spain thought about it. What did he have to lose? “Thanks Veneziano! I’ll go try those right away!” He mentally debated throwing Romano over his shoulder ( _it would be faster that way!_ ), realized debating was stupid, moron, because as he was Romano wouldn’t care, realized the voice in his head that told him he was a moron sounded like Romano, and realized he really _really_ missed his Roma. Without wasting any more time, Spain picked the southern half of Italy up, didn’t bother apologizing, threw him over one shoulder, and trotted off to a different living room. He figured Romano wouldn’t want an audience there when he started acting like himself again. Hopefully started acting like himself again.

“Ve, Germany, isn’t True Love beautiful?” Veneziano threw his hands in the air after his brother and Spain left the room. “Almost as beautiful as pasta!”

Germany was a thoughtful, articulate, badly repressed nation. “Ah…”

Veneziano tapped his finger against his nose in thought. “But I think I’m going to call Japan anyway, just to be safe. Ve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose there's also some trout->Spain action in there too. Spain you tease. The original prompt was as follows:
> 
> _Some of the nations (Not Spain) slip Romano new behavioral medication to make him less angry (Or Cuter. Either works for me.)_
> 
> _It works, but not only does it repress anger, it represses all strong emotions. Many of those now repressed emotions were directed towards Spain. Spain tries to reverse the effects of the medication, much to Romano's indifference (Which make Spain work faster)_
> 
> _Bonus- Spain/North Italy start to cry after his emotions towards tomatoes and pasta are repressed._
> 
> _Make me smile Anon ^^_


	2. What's True Love Got to Do With It?

Making out was difficult when one of the participants kept trying to castrate the other, even if only playfully. But Spain was used to that, and had adjusted his technique accordingly over the years. He could dodge kicks without even thinking ( _Roma was so flexible_ ), and could even get one hand up Romano’s shirt while the other held both of Romano’s fists at bay. Really, Spain had gotten good at it.

Making out was really weird when one of the participants just kind of sat there.

Spain reflexively brought his hand up to block a blow and moved his head down to Romano’s chest when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. But it was just Romano reaching a hand up to stifle a yawn. _A yawn._

Spain wriggled his left hand. Yes, it was still in Romano’s pants.

He looked up at Romano’s face. Yes, it was still looking off into the distance.

“Do you want me to stop?” Even if it wasn’t the kind of progress that Spain was hoping for, Romano telling him to ‘get the fuck off of me you bastard’ would be a welcome relief.

“No.”

Romano telling him to ‘keep going you bastard’ would be even better. “…do you want me to keep going?” He rubbed his right hand very soothingly along Romano’s upper thigh. Feeling adventurous, he ended the caress with a little squeeze of Romano’s ass.

“If you want to.”

Spain came to a mental crossroads. Either he could take advantage of Romano’s docility and _then_ fix him, or he could try and get him back to normal from the start. It was tempting, but… “What do you want to do, Roma?” Romano wanted things all the time. Even if those things weren’t always Spain… he did his best to get his greedy Roma the little things he wanted. It was a habit Spain had had for hundreds of years. “Have a nap? A snack maybe?”

“I’m fine.” Romano relaxed fully back onto the couch. “You seem like you want to keep going. Don’t let me stop you.”

Spain… did not know how to read this situation. He’d started thinking a few decades earlier that maybe he knew how to translate ‘Romano’ into most of his languages and dialects, Castilian at least. Looking down at Romano, lying beneath him, Spain started thinking that this was a lot of trouble even if Roma was worth it and hadn’t Roma been wearing that shirt yesterday, yeah it still had that little stain on the collar and _sweet tomatoes_ Romano was wearing clothes two days in a row, was the world ending? “You don’t want to not do what I want to do? Maybe do the complete opposite? Or do exactly what I wanted to do because you really wanted to do it first and I just stole your idea because I’m a bastard?”

Romano raised one eyebrow. “What the hell?”

Even if it was something a normal Romano would say, it wasn’t said with any of the force a normal Romano would say it with. Spain felt like he was straddling an imposter. “Okay then. Alright.” But getting angry and shouting would be a waste of time. And it wouldn’t even be satisfying because Romano probably wasn’t going to shout back. “Okay Roma! We’re going to keep going if you don’t have any objections!”

“Yeah, sure.”

Spain wished, as he unzipped his pants, that he had recorded that for later on, when Romano was better. And probably angrier. Huh. Was there a way to get Romano back during the afterglow? He was fairly affectionate then…

After a minute or so, Spain realized that nothing was happening. That was right: this was up to him. He had to concentrate. Concentrate. Concen— had this couch always been printed with large flowers on the side? Spain thought he’d picked the living room with the striped couch. He liked that one better because the cushions were firmer. And _that_ was much better for an afternoon quickie. Qui… was he forgetting something?

Right.

_Concentrate._

__He started with Romano’s chest. Running his hands up and down the sides, kissing the bits that were, “That tickles.”

Spain sighed in relief. “I’m glad you aren’t an imposter, Roma.” He’d never met anyone else who laughed so much when someone touched the skin just to the left of his sternum. Sure, Romano hadn’t let a burst of giggles slip and tried to hit Spain in the face in retribution, but at least he’d felt something. Was feeling a lot of something, if his nipples were anything to go by. Even if he wasn't feeling normal, Spain’s passion was _get-ting_ to Romano…

“Can I have my shirt back? I’m cold.”

 _God damn it_.

Instead of forcing out a ‘no Roma, you may not have your shirt back’ like he might have once, Spain kissed Romano hard and gave his haircurl a sharp _yank_. Not hard enough to pull it out, just hard enough to make Romano… get… only slightly red. What?

“I feel, mmf, funny.” Romano turned his face to the side. “Stop touching that.”

Spain gulped. Now was the time. “Make me.”

Romano scowled, _scowled_ and clenched one hand into a fist and drew back his arm and… knocked Spain lightly on the shoulder. That done, he put his hand ( _no longer a fist_ ) back down and shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.”

That was as good as permission. Under the circumstances. Spain threaded the strand of Romano’s Special Hair between his fingers, back and forth. He rubbed it with his thumb, calloused from over a thousand years of work and battle. He even started _sucking_ on it, although that always felt silly because it was just a piece of hair and Spain didn't like getting hair in his mouth as much as anyone. By the time the haircurl had been completely loved out of shape, and could no longer stand erect from all the time it had spent in his mouth, Spain chanced a look down. _His_ cock twitched at him, as if to say ‘that was strangely incredibly hot now GET ME OFF.’ Spain shot it a sympathetic look, because he knew how it felt. How he felt. How they both felt. He shifted his head to look at Romano’s.

He looked up at Romano’s face.

Back down at Romano’s penis.

Face again.

…it was probably good that Romano was the one so disaffected, because Spain had _just_ enough self-esteem not to want to crawl under a rock and die because his half-hour of foreplay had apparently made Romano feel _nothing_. Nothing at all and even though the blow to his pride was as strong as one of Romano’s best headbutts, Spain kept going. This was for Romano. Mostly.

Spain gathered himself together, arms shaking, and concentrated. He could go for a blowjob but that might kill his pride completely if the outcome was the same as the hairjob. And he was already hot and bothered enough for the both of them. He steadied his breathing, and decided to ask. Sex was a two nation affair, at least. “Hey, Roma?”

“Spain?”

“Y-you want,” maybe that was the wrong word, “have any requests? Something…” Spain lowered himself onto his elbows. He was more tired than he should have been. “To make you… uh… to make this better for you?” That was the best way he knew how to put it.

Romano bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m not cold anymore, so… hey, isn’t that uncomfortable?”

Spain didn’t need to know where he was pointing. “It is.”

“You’re really an idiot not to do anything about that.”

Probably, but he already knew that. “I know, Roma, I know.” An idea occurred to him, though, despite the idiocy. “Give me your hand.” Spain squeezed it when Romano did. He liked holding hands. They didn’t do it very often, not even at Spain’s house. They also didn’t often thrust their cocks against each other sporadically, into their entwined hands, because they had more finesse than that.

Spain had no more patience for finesse. But after a few seconds, he had no more heart for what he was trying to do. Romano didn’t look like he was being taken advantage of. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself either ( _although he was a tiny bit harder, yes, Spain wasn’t making that up_ ). Spain untangled their hands, let go of their ( _his_ ) erections and sat up. “Sorry Roma. Just give…” Romano’s face was confused and his body was open, waiting and Spain had to _leave_. “Just give me a few minutes. I need to… shower.”

Twenty icy minutes later, Spain was washed, dried and back. Romano had found the remote and was watching something on the large television in the corner of the room. He hadn’t moved other than to sprawl out even further on the couch. Spain gritted his teeth and entered the room. He lifted Romano’s legs and sat underneath him, in the same place he had tried to… the same place he had been sitting earlier. He heard the curses that didn’t come but should have, and replaced Romano’s legs when he was settled.

He had failed again.

But Spain was an optimistic nation: the most optimistic in the world. If even True Love’s Please Baby I’ll Make You Feel Good hadn’t worked, then he needed more help. _Someone_ would know what to do. Spain didn’t feel right about bothering Veneziano and Germany again just yet. They hadn’t been in the living room he’d left them in earlier in the day when he had rushed past it on his way to the bathroom. All Spain could think was that at least _someone_ in his house was—.

No. If Spain had learned anything in his lifetime, he had learned two things:

One. If it’s dawn and you’re not at the market yet, the grandmas will beat you to all the best produce and act smug about it for the rest of the day, and you can’t even reprimand them for it because even if you were present at their baptisms ( _at the baptisms of_ their _grandmothers_ ), they don’t remember.

Two. Don’t force other nations to do what you want them to do, only because it’s what you want. Even if you wanted it really badly. That never turned out well… Spain had tried to force Romano. Normally, Romano forced right back. Earlier he hadn’t, and the bad taste in the back of Spain’s mouth still hadn’t left. Even after he’d brushed his teeth.

Even after he’d flossed.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Spain knew he was doing the right thing. He needed more advice.

_RING_

“This is Port—”

“Brother it’s Romano, he—”

 _CLICK_.

_RING_

“What a lovely—”

“France! If you put something in Roma’s food I’ll kill—”

 _CLICK_.

_RING_

“Eng—”

“Change him **back** , _you bastard_ , or—”

 _CLICK_.

_RING_

“…”

“Greece?”

“…yeah.”

“Do you know why Romano wouldn’t be acting like himself?”

“What is the true definition of self… I wond—”

 _CLICK_.

_RING_

“Just a second.” Spain waited. Romano continued to watch television next to him. A telenovela… he didn’t shout advice at the screen. Not even when Don Rodríguez confessed to being Maria’s _real_ father, and, “Sorry, I’m back. Just had to send something.”

She sounded troubled. “Is something wrong?” Spain didn’t feel right about dumping his ( _and Romano’s_ ) problems on Belgium if she had her own to deal with. Maybe he could call someone else. Maybe it was Turkey’s fault.

“It’s nothing, I’m just a little scatterbrained lately.” She _sounded_ okay… “So? What’s the matter?” Spain poured out his heart like a rainstorm. “Well fuck.”

“I already tried that!”

Belgium coughed a little on the other end. “That’s… too bad. Have you tried talking to his brother?”

“He and Germany are already here.” Somewhere. Maybe. Spain hadn’t seen them in a while, and the rest of the house was quiet. It was the middle of the afternoon. They were probably sleeping.

“Hmm… I wish I could be more helpful. Romano really just sits around all day?” The way she said it mollified Spain a little, but he wasn’t about to give up. Something was definitely wrong with Romano. The proof was lying on top of him, not subtly crying about Maria and her evil twin Adelina’s heartwarming reunion and reconciliation. “Are you sure something’s actually wrong?”

Yes. Yes he was. “He doesn’t sit with any purpose. At all. And you know what he’s like.”

“Th-that sounds…” She remembered well. Romano loafed with purpose, just like Spain said. He lazed because he _could_ , because he had been told to do something else. He turned sitting around all day into a sport. “Have you tried any of the nations who practice magic? Norway, maybe? Or Eng—.”

A terse “yes” coincided with the sharp screams of two maids beginning an all-out, hair-pulling brawl. Not that Belgium would know those details, far away as she was. Romano watched the fight listlessly. Spain had to swallow a whimper of frustration.

“Sorry, sorry. I forgot.” Belgium dragged her fingers through her hair. The situation sounded very serious, judging from Spain’s voice, but she didn’t know how she could help. She wasn’t some sort of doctor. “I’m really sorry Spain, I’m fresh out of ideas.” The oddest thing was that when she had invited Romano to her house earlier in the week, she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. He had been absolutely charming with her, brusque to her brother who had stopped by in the middle of Romano’s visit… he’d been the same as always. “It’s so strange, Romano was perfectly normal when I saw him a few days ago. We made tomate-crevette, the three of us, Netherlands was there too. He brought the shrimp, and he’s such a softy for little Roma still, really, because he wouldn’t let me eat… any… when they were… done… Oh.” She paused. “Spain?”

Spain shook his head a little. At some point he’d started paying attention to the telenovela too and… Maria could really do better than— no! He was listening, really, he was! Concentrate! “Yeah?”

“Can I call you back?”

Maria kissed Don Rodríguez passionately, Romano didn’t jump up and call her a slut for two-timing José and Spain said “Whatever” when he really meant “Please fix him **_please_**.” If he hadn’t been feeling so strongly like the weather outside ( _a dismal, disgusting drizzle_ ), Spain might have been worried that whatever was wrong with Romano was contagious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’m just a little scatterbrained lately_ : google Belgium + split + news.
> 
>  _tomate-crevette_ : Belgian dish. How to make: Get a tomato. Gut it. Put some shrimp+mayo concoction in the cavity. Eat. It seemed like something Romano would enjoy.
> 
>  _“he’s such a softy for little Roma still”_ : …just go with it.


	3. Lies and Truth

_RING_

“H—”

If she was right he didn’t deserve a preamble. Because she was fair ( _and not entirely sure she was right_ ), she let him have a chance to speak. “You have five seconds to explain yourself.”

“Good morning to you too, little sister.”

“Three.”

“What crawled into _your_ waffles and died this morning?”

His time was up. “Netherlands, if you don’t tell me what you did to Roma right this instant I’ll sell pictures of Spain’s 16th century portraits of you to the media!” After so many years, Belgium knew how to hit where it hurt.

“Don’t you dare.”

She laughed. “Don’t you want your people to know how fetching you look in an apron?”

Change the subject. He had to change the subject. “…what’s wrong with Romano? He sick or something?”

Why could he never get to the point? “I don’t know, why don’t _you_ tell _me_?”

“How would I know what you don’t? You’re the one who checks up on everybody all the time.” Where had she picked that annoying habit up from? Probably from a human. Or from _France_.

She scoffed. “Says the nation who brought over extra dish towels when he saw one of mine had a tear.”

“A patch couldn’t repair that thing. Who do you think you are, Austria? No. You’re not.”

“That’s— enough of that! Tell me why Romano isn’t acting like himself or else I’ll give them the dress pictures! The _red_ dress.”

 _Please let her have forgotten about the black dress._ “He isn’t acting like himself?”

Belgium sighed. “Exactly. From what Spain said it sounds like the world’s ending.”

“You’d trust his opinions. Romano probably just sneezed or something.” …had it worked?

She dismissed her brother’s protest out of hand. Something in the weak reply was suspicious. “He doesn’t care about anything. Not even food or naps or making fun of Spain.”

“…” That wasn’t what he’d wanted.

Belgium pressed on. “Netherlands? If you did this…”

“I…” kind of might have screwed up need to make a phone call “I might have an idea.”

So that’s how it was going to be. “Corset pictures from the 1800s, brother.”

“I might have an idea, a cause and a reason.”

“Book us two tickets to Spain’s house right away.” She looked at the fading snapshot sitting on her desk, nodded, and slipped it into her purse. For security. “Or else I’ll send every newsgroup you have the 1970s pictures just for all the trouble you’re putting me through. Luxembourg can look after Heintje.”

“Fine.”

_CLICK._

\- - - - -

The telenovela had ended hours before. But Spain and Romano were still sitting on the same couch, in the same position. Romano had begun to read one of Spain’s books and wasn't even pretending he was fluent in the language. Occasionally he’d ask Spain to define a word. Spain would answer, ignoring the infomercials playing on the television Romano hadn’t bothered to turn off, and then cry into a convenient pillow. The rain had returned.

Romano flipped a page of his book. “You’re going to get a mold problem if you don’t stop that soon.”

“Mold?” Why would there be mold?

Romano hummed, turned his book around and pointed at a word. “What does this mean?”

Spain answered numbly. Romano was reading his books, his poetry even, and not hiding that he couldn’t do it perfectly or even hiding that he was doing it at all. But… but leaving reference books open to the exact page Romano needed out around the house was the best part! Right after bursting out of the hiding place behind the coat rack just as Romano finished understanding what the author was trying to say and tackling Roma to a satisfied ( _and grumpy_ ) heap on the floor.

“Thanks.”

Romano turned another page a few seconds later.

And something in Spain snapped. Crying wasn’t going to bring Roma back. Neither was asking for help. Neither was sex. Neither was pride. Something fizzled in the air as Spain made his decision, and once he did there was no returning. He was going to get Romano’s feelings back any way he could. Because if there was something that couldn’t be taken away from Italy Romano, if there was one thing that was married to the very marrow in his bones, it was Romano’s ability to get very, incredibly, totally, extremely, ridiculously, irrationally, really fucking **angry**.

It had been less than a day, but Spain relished the thought of having a little of that rage directed at him. He was prepared for the consequences. He had told his cheery tomato garden he loved it on the way back from his shower. Sure he’d said it through a window, but he knew they knew. He’d raised them to be smart and considerate like that. Just like his turtles. Affairs in order, Spain went in for the kill. “Your brother was really cute as a kid, you know.”

Romano didn’t even flinch. “I always thought so too.” He looked up from his book calmly, slowly, and Spain thought maybe he’d gotten it. Until Romano flipped the book around again and held it out so Spain could see. “And this…?”

Spain didn’t back down. He answered Romano’s question, certainly, because even though it was weird that Roma was asking him so plainly for help ( _How long had it been since he’d done that?_ ), it would be mean of him not to answer. Romano was doing so much better, he barely had to ask for help now, only with the more obscure words and idioms and oh Spain was so proud of him and… wait. What had he been saying? Ignorant of Spain’s inner confusion, Romano settled in again. A few seconds later, once he’d remembered why he was doing it at all, Spain continued trying to infuriate him. “He’s still really cute.”

“It’s his hobby.”

Romano had shrugged at that, as though he was excusing Veneziano for his behavior. Spain clenched his fists and barreled forward. “He can paint better than you can.”

Another page went by. “I know.”

Well _fine_. “You weren’t always a very good henchman, Romano.” It hurt to say but it was the truth, and Spain knew just how much the truth could hurt. Or make Romano angry when he didn’t feel like consulting it.

Romano looked Spain right in the eye. And raised one eyebrow, as though Spain had just made a joke that wasn’t as funny as his usually were, because Spain’s jokes were usually pretty good. Especially the ones about the paper flowers, bananas and penguins in September. France and Prussia always laughed at those. It took a few more beers, but sometimes Germany laughed too. Romano didn’t laugh as often, but that was because Romano had ‘higher tastes’ or that was what he always said anyway. Spain would have asked him about that, out of the blue, but Romano had already set his expression back to normal and had returned his attention to the poetry in front of him. “I never wanted to be. Does this mean—?”

“It does.” Spain didn’t skip a beat. “I thought about letting the Ottoman Empire just have you. More than once.” Quite often when his bosses had taken to pulling on his ear or lecturing, but what was he supposed to have done? Let Romano get taken away?

“Hmmm.” Romano fiddled with the corner of one of the pages of Spain’s book, creasing and crinkling it. Somewhere, a museum curator began to cry.

Spain refused to give up. He just had to think harder. What would Romano not want to hear…? “…I lied when I said that AS Roma was a good team.”

Romano yawned. “I lied when I said I always knew you would beat Germany this year.” Now that was uncalled for. “Your language is fucking annoying.”

He’d said it with the same care and tone he’d used to ask for milk earlier in the day. Spain considered tossing his pillow across the room, but ultimately didn’t have the energy for it. “Yours is too.” No, concentrate! He could do better than that, he “I…uh. Uh. I think you’re looking very feminine today, Roma.”

Another page. “Really?”

“Your dick is small.” There. How could Romano _not_ get angry after that? Even Spain would get upset if someone insulted his vital regions so blatantly.

“It gets the job done.”

The voice that sounded much too much like Romano when he was normal said ‘ _bastard_ ’ inside Spain’s head, and Spain had to agree. “Your house is crazy.” Spain’s house was smoking a little from where the lightning had accidentally hit it and the rain hadn’t been fast enough in putting the resulting fire out. Spain didn’t notice.

Romano didn’t feel like commenting. Instead he bent a several-hundred-year-old page in on itself to mark his place and set the book of poems aside. Once settled back on the couch, he folded his arms underneath his head and closed his eyes. “Not my fault.”

Spain was pretty sure that wasn’t totally true. But he was trying to pick a fight with Romano, not send him to sleep, and after a thousand years of politics, Spain himself got a little drowsy when talking about house business. “I used to daydream about you and Veneziano and chocolate body paint.”

Romano’s breathing evened out.

The door opened. “Good afternoon, Spain-san.” And Japan stepped through it.

Germany and Veneziano stood frozen in the hallway. Germany, surprisingly, was the first to recover. Spain didn’t know if that was because he hadn’t overheard properly, because he’d already repressed the memory, or because he’d already filed away the memory to later consider slowly and savor. With Germany you never knew for sure. “Veneziano decided Japan might have a solution to the problem this time.” His face was a little redder than it usually was so Spain figured his last guess was the closest to how the last few seconds in Germany’s head had gone on. But what did Spain know; maybe it was mysteriously snowing out again. It had done that, earlier in the day.

Spain moved Romano’s legs carefully, so as not to wake him. And then reconsidered because Roma did get _really_ angry when he was woken up early from a nap. Using both arms, carefully so that Roma wouldn't land on his head, Spain shoved the southern half of Italy onto the floor. He rolled a little before waking up, but he didn’t start swearing or hitting or ( _forgetting all his memories or_ ) asking why Spain was acting like such a jerk. All the gusto Spain had gathered together in his quest to piss Romano off royally vanished with Romano’s vaguely confused frown. Spain sat down on the carpet himself and sighed into the pillow he’d taken with him. “I’m sorry, Japan. I’ve failed you.”

Japan folded his arms into his sleeves, which was hard to do with the hooded sweatshirt he’d chosen to travel in ( _his old bones liked to be comfortable on long flights_ ) but somehow he managed. “How so, Spain-san?”

Veneziano, when he snapped out of the horrified void of darkness his mind and Spain’s offhand desire had brought him to, caught Germany’s arm. “Ve, Germany. Did big brother Spain really just do that?” If he forgot the words they didn’t exist. Had never existed. Pretty girls, pretty girls…

Spain sat up. From the floor, Japan looked taller. Not all-knowing or anything, not with his bad case of ‘ _The only sleep I got in the 18 hours I was stuffed in a flying metal box was on the plastic tray table in front of me_ ’ hair. Just taller. “I tried the…” Spain remembered that Germany was in the room. Instead of expanding on his failures with Romano and Romano’s Fun Hair, he winked. A few times, for good measure. “…and even some…” he twisted his hands into a complicated pattern that was supposed to describe True Love and all its Mysteries. “But none of it worked.”

“I see…” Unfazed by the obscene gesturing, Japan frowned. “Germany-san, may I please have my bag?”

Pretty girls, ve, pretty girls… Veneziano let go of Germany’s arm so he wouldn’t be asked to help transport the oversized duffel again. “Ve, Japan, what are you going to do now?”

Japan directed Germany to place the bag next to Romano. “I will need to examine the patient. Veneziano-san, will you please wear the cap tucked in the second zipper pocket?”

“Okay!” Veneziano retrieved the cap with much less fuss than he’d made when Germany had suggested he help carry the duffel to the car at the airport. With even less fuss and maybe a flourish, he set the little pink prop on top of his head. “But, ve, why do you have a fake nurse’s costume in your luggage, Japan?”

Japan waved his left hand vaguely and patiently. “Because, Veneziano-san, I will be in need of a nurse for this procedure. Make sure you lean very far over the patient during the examination. It is imperative to learn his type.” He unzipped the main section of the bag himself and pulled out a stethoscope he had stolen earlier in the year from UNSICK.

“But Japan, ve, we already know that.” Veneziano clapped his hands together. Spain smirked. “Big brother Romano likes pretty girls! Especially when they have nice long legs, ve, although I think cute faces are more important but we both agree that a—” Spain stopped smirking. The twitch at the corner of his eye was actually really impressive, Veneziano thought. “Oh. Big brother Romano likes you too, big brother Spain. You’re his other type!”

Germany coughed.

Japan coughed too, and adjusted his collar. “Yes. Well. Please keep the cap on, Veneziano-san. It provides the proper working atmosphere.”

“I can do that, ve.”

Japan bowed. “Thank you.”

Veneziano bowed back, a little wobbly. “Ve, it’s no problem. I like it!”

Germany coughed again.

Romano, who had watched the scene calmly and _quietly_ , tapped Spain on the shoulder and flatly began to speak. “Why the hell did you do that?” He pointed to the couch before resuming his poking. Spain leaned his body into Romano’s finger to make the action feel more forceful. More real. “Give me a little warning next time.”

Spain envisioned a future where he was no longer able to get a rise out of Romano. One where he was unable to say _just_ the right careless thing to get Romano’s blood boiling. One where all the bondage gear he had gotten from the mail-order catalogue he and Prussia had found under Germany’s bed would never come out from the box in the back of the closet again. Spain grabbed Romano’s hand, stopping it. “Japan.”

Japan pulled a surgical glove on his left hand with a snap. “Yes, Spain-san?”

“Do what you have to.”

“Of course, Spain-san.” He knelt before Romano, motioning Veneziano to do so as well. “Good evening, Romano-san.”

Romano blinked. “Hey, Japan.”

Japan placed the stethoscope over Romano’s heart, and listened. “I have heard that something strange has happened to you again, Romano-san.”

The last time Spain had been in for a check-up, the doctor had told him to take off his shirt for this part. Granted, the doctor had also suggested a few exams Spain was pretty sure he really didn’t need. “I don’t know why, but Roma doesn’t care about anything, Japan. And he’s not pretending!”

Romano shrugged. “That’s what Spain’s been saying.”

Japan slowly took off his pilfered medical equipment. He stared at Romano for a long moment, before pulling a pad of paper from his pocket. “Nurse-san.”

Veneziano pulled a stray thread from the carpet. It had been bugging him; Spain really needed to get his things restored every once in a while, if he was going to keep them all out in his house. What kind of way was it to remember an artist, letting his masterpieces, made lovingly for his country, deteriorate?

Japan cleared his throat. “ _Nurse-san._ ”

Veneziano jumped. “Ve, Japan, you mean me?”

“Pen, please.”

Nurse Veneziano checked his shirt pocket, his pants pockets, the pockets of the duffel and even Japan’s back pants pocket ( _“Wh-wh-wha-what are you…?!”_ ) before Germany finally gave up and handed him one of his own reserve pens. Black and sensible, it had seen many forms in its lifetime. Seeing it held by Veneziano in his nurse cap made Germany feel things. _Things_. He coughed.

Was Germany coming down with something? “Ve, pen here, Dr. Japan!”

“Thank you.” Japan took the strangely warm pen and scribbled a few words on his pad of paper. “Now Romano-san.” Romano didn’t move. “…have you… eaten anything strange lately?”

Romano thought about it. Spain thought about it too, flying through a mental list of everything he’d made for Romano in the past month and everything Romano had ordered when they’d gone out and every possible thing Romano would have likely consumed when he was away. He wondered what counted as strange.

Spain coughed.

Romano slapped him on the back. “I don’t think so.”

“I see…” Japan carefully set his pad of paper down, and put Germany’s pen into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He pulled the latex glove off his left hand, finger by finger. Once freed, he curled his hand into a fist. “Then this is the only opti—!”

Spain blocked the shot with his body. More accurately, Spain tried to block the shot with his body. But his arms and torso could only do so much at once, and at that moment were occupied with pulling Romano into a comforting hug. Spain’s head, however, was completely free to block Japan's fist. “…ow.”

“Spain-san?”

Ow. “I know I said ‘do what you have to’ a few minutes ago, but I take it back.” Ow. “I’d really like it if you didn’t hit Romano. Or me. It’s not very nice.” Spain could take Romano’s punches anytime. Romano often pulled them ( _you’rereallyworriedaboutmeohRomathat’ssocutesocutesocute_ ), and even when he didn’t ( _thatwaslesscuteRomabutit’sokayIhealreallyfastohGodIdidn’tevenknowthatcouldhurtthere_ ) he always made up for it later. Romano, not struggling in Spain’s arms for the seventeenth time that day, did not look likely to make anything up to anyone. He looked like he was about to fall back asleep.

“I see.” Japan glanced down at the bruise forming on his knuckles. Spain had a hard head. “Ow.”

Germany wondered where Spain’s heavenly tolerance of physical violence had gone, but at this point he had no intention of calling attention to himself.

In the silence that followed, Veneziano, like Spain before him, snapped. He crumpled his nurse’s cap in his hands and threw it to the floor. “Ve! But if brother’s the calm Italy then I have to be the grumpy Italy or else the world will implode and I don’t want to because then I’ll have to say mean things to Germany and call everyone a bastard ahhh!” He stood suddenly, and kicked the cap at the opposite wall.

When he spat out a single “ _Ve_ ” it sounded more profane than most of what came out of his brother’s mouth on a daily basis. Germany, unable to help it, coughed. And turned bright red.

Veneziano ignored him. “Big brother, ve, I don’t care what _these_ people try to do anymore, ve, I’m going to make you Big Brother Romano again or… or… or _else_.” Some of the snow falling around him turned to steam in midair. Germany began to cough so hard he cried. Spain’s mind couldn’t wrap itself around what Spain’s eyes was seeing so rerouted Spain’s consciousness to some old memories of relaxing with Roma in the sun while it tried to catch up. Japan waited. “I’ve sat by too long, ve.” Veneziano began to walk backwards out of the room slowly, a manic glint in his eyes that nations usually only got during times of extreme duress.

The north of Italy was motivated. There wasn’t a pretty girl in sight.

“If you want something done,” Veneziano paused dramatically, a dark silhouette framed by the hallway light. “ _Make pasta_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without knowing it, Spain was right: the Out of Character Disease is spreading! Sort of.
> 
> Re the Netherlands: Heintje is his bunny.
> 
> The book: Las cantigas de Santa María. Because ‘Spanish lyrical poetry of the middle ages’ was too good to pass up.
> 
> Re Spain: why stop at making Romano unsettling? Have a verge-of-breakdown!Spain. This model ups the AXE CRAZY and the pathetic at the same time. And the adorable ( _Shit, paradox_ ). Also: Spain, at times, being forced-oblivious and making Romano angry just to savor the hot sexy angrysex? Yoinked from Scrubs. C’mon, you can see it.
> 
> Re Japan: When I wrote Memory Loss I figured _-san is okay if it’s Japan saying it…right? Right?_ Now I don’t think the same way. But it’s still there. Why? So I can poke fun at it in the next part, of course!


	4. And Romano Finally Appears in the Story

Veneziano’s hands trembled as he struggled to light the burner. Maybe righteous anger had carried him out of the living room, down the stairs, through another living room, past the unused maids’ quarter, through the orchard, down by the stream, and back up to Spain’s kitchen. Maybe righteous anger had collected all the ingredients for an eight course pasta feast and had set them in an orderly pile on the counter. But righteous anger could only do so much. And righteous anger fizzled away as soon as the flames flickered to life on the stove.

“Large pot.”

Germany picked up a large metal pot from its shelf and handed it to Veneziano without a word.

“Water.”

Germany blinked.

Veneziano thought about it for a second, “Ve…” before handing the pot back to Germany. “Take this, fill it with water and then hand it back to me.” The fire on the stove burned merrily. Cheerfully. It must not have understood the cues the rest of the house was trying to give it.

Five minutes later, the first bubble rose in the pot on the stove. “Veneziano.”

The second bubble. “Ve?”

“Veneziano.” Germany pulled at his collar slightly before guiltily hiding his hands behind his back. He’d been feeling a little too warm ever since Veneziano had agreed to wear Japan’s nurse cap. Half of Germany’s mind had even considered petitioning his motor functions to pick up the hat once Veneziano had discarded it. For. For sentimental reasons. Germany’s motor functions had denied the request. “Glaring at the water will not make it boil any faster.”

In response to Germany’s halfhearted scolding, Veneziano focused the power of his impatient stare on the pot with all his might. A third bubble rose, and Veneziano’s concentration broke. “Ve, Germany, that shows what you know!” He turned and smiled brightly, all traces of his previous fury lost. “I know everything there is to know about making pasta. Sometimes you need to hold pasta’s hand and gently guide it to the perfect deliciousness.” Veneziano clapped his hands together and nodded. Germany gulped. “And sometimes you need to be really strict, ve, with whips and chains just like in those movies you always hide in your closet whenever I visit your house!”

“I have no ide—”

Veneziano ignored him. “But no dogs, ve, pasta and dogs don’t mix.” A few droplets of water condensed on the ceiling and fell. They hissed in disapproval when they met the busily burning fire below. The fire didn’t really notice. “And since Romano usually uses the angry pasta approach, ve, that’s how it has to be this time! _Because big brother Romano is going to be normal again_.” In Germany’s mind, something sinister curled out of Veneziano’s voice and settled in the chaotic depths of the universe. In the rest of the room, the temperature dropped.

Spain had returned.

“Spain.” Germany didn’t want to take his eyes off Veneziano, in the event that he burned down the house or made a mess on the countertops. But the house they were standing in ( _and the house that would be burned_ ) was Spain’s, and Germany owed him at least the courtesy. “How is he?”

Something sinister rose from the chaotic depths of the universe in order to jump around Spain’s feet, lick his palms and try and make him feel better. He wiped his hands against the sides of his shirt and stared forlornly at the pot on the stove. In a matter of seconds it burst into full boil. “Japan is sitting with him. He… he’s peaceful now.” On any other day Germany would find that hard to believe. But not today. Even if Germany wasn’t as pathetically saddened by Romano’s demeanor as Spain appeared to be, he still acknowledged the change. And feared it slightly.

“Out.” Germany and Spain exchanged a confused glance. Veneziano’s shout had sounded like… like an _order_. “Ve, big brother Spain? Germany? Ve…” Veneziano wiped a stray tear away from his cheek with the back of one hand, and picked up a tomato with the other. “Get out of the kitchen right away, ve, or else I’ll have to throw you out and call you names and curse at you until you leave. Ve, I probably should do that anyway. It would remind the pasta of how big brother Romano _should_ be.”

He lifted the precious tomato behind his head and prepared to throw.

_SPLAT_

__Germany felt his eyes widen comically.

Spain didn’t notice anything, because he had accepted his fate with closed eyes and a heavy heart. It didn’t hurt that nothing had been thrown at him in a really long time, not since the day before, and he missed it a little bit. ‘Things that aren’t thrown,’ he reflected, hoping the incoming tomato hit him full on in the face, ‘are the hardest to dodge.’

The Netherlands, on the other hand, did not move a muscle. He stood in the doorway, impassive as a stone that had had a tomato thrown at it, and did nothing. Red pulp slid down the front of his shirt.

A smaller voice piped up from behind him. “Why did you stop? Did you find them?” Belgium peered around her brother, took in the situation, and rolled her eyes. “ _Spain_ , I thought you told me Romano wasn’t acting like himself. You didn't have to lie. All you have to do to get me to visit is ask, don’t you remember? You don’t want to turn into Netherlands!” She laughed and slapped the Netherlands on the back. He didn’t flinch.

And Spain didn’t open his eyes. “I wasn’t lying! Romano’s really, really, really sick. _Dispassionately_ sick!”

Belgium shoved her brother to the side so she could get a better look at the angry Italy standing near the stove. He certainly looked like Italy Romano, with his frown and the way he had just pelted Netherlands with a bright red tomato. But little things here and there added up, a different feeling around the edges, and Belgium let her skepticism fade. “Veneziano? Is that you?”

Germany nodded. “It is. Romano is upstairs with Japan. He appears not to care about anything.” Instead of expanding on exactly what that entailed, he went on. “Veneziano thought, ah…” he blushed. Belgium let it slide. “Veneziano thought that pasta might help Romano return to his normal self. Because pasta is so important to him.”

Veneziano’s fists trembled, and not just because he had willingly wasted a perfectly good tomato, although that was part of it. “Pasta is important to everyone!” He stomped over to the stove and began to cook, muttering to himself softly.

Belgium whistled. “Are you sure he’s not Romano?”

“He’s not.” Spain held his forehead in his hands and sighed, before turning to greet his newest guests. Even if he wasn’t feeling his best, he still needed to be a good host to them. “Belgium! And Netherlands too? This is such a good surprise! We have so much catching up to do, do you think we should go on a picnic when Romano is… is better? Yeah! The rain will probably have cleared up by then, and we can all go out and sit in the grass and have some of the pasta Veneziano’s making, and it’ll be just like the old days except it’ll be even better, although it won’t be too different, because you’re looking pretty as ever Belgium, and _you’re_ looking as grumpy as ever, Netherlands, and Roma is… he… Roma’s… Romano’s _going_ to be looking as grumpy as ever, don’t worry, I’ve got it under control!”

By that point, Belgium had already stopped listening to Spain and had started hugging him. He looked like he needed a hug badly, that or a swift punch to the jaw. And Belgium had already promised all her punches to her brother. “Shh… It’s alright Spain. We’re going to make it better. Netherlands,” she beckoned him over with one finger. When he didn’t immediately jump to it, she mouthed the word ‘photographs.’ He jumped. “Netherlands has something he wants to tell you.”

Spain sniffled. “You do?”

Whether the Netherlands wanted to be anywhere near Spain, let alone within speaking distance of him, didn’t matter. A loud _CRASH_ from one of the upper rooms interrupted his reply.

Several things happened at once.

A serving platter fell from a shelf above Veneziano’s head; Germany dove and caught it. Veneziano, wrapped up in his culinary world, ignored the movement and the noise, and continued to test a sample of sauce from a long wooden spoon. The Netherlands frowned, and wished he were elsewhere. Belgium stumbled, before catching her balance on the side of Spain’s dinner table. Spain himself took off running. The noise had come from where he'd left Romano.

When Spain arrived in the living room, he found Romano on the ground. Japan stood next to him, face unreadable. “I am very sorry, Spain-san. Romano-san wanted to leave the observation room to gather a few documents for me.” He inclined his head forward. “He regrettably tripped before achieving his task.”

Romano rubbed the side of his head and whispered a soft “stupid floor.” He didn’t get up. He didn’t say anything about Spain entering the room, or how it was all the damn carpet’s fault.

Spain couldn’t believe it. “Why didn’t you help him up?” Kneeling to the ground, he tried to gather Romano into his arms. It wasn’t difficult at all, although Romano was a little heavy to lift ( _“Roma, have you been eating more?” “No”_ ). Spain carried Romano back to the couch, carefully set them both down on the uncomfortable cushions, and found he didn’t have the energy to properly rage at Japan. Someone important to Spain had been wronged, and he didn’t have the energy to be furious.

“Romano-san must walk his own path, Spain-san.” Japan scribbled something on his notepad. “I am only his spiritual guide.”

Hadn’t Veneziano said Japan understood medicine? Wasn’t Japan wearing a white lab coat? The last time Spain had checked ( _1983_ ), stethoscopes weren’t mystic devices meant to divine the nature and health of the soul. “Japan…” Spain didn’t have the energy to be furious, and without fury he had no words.

Maybe Romano would never get better.

Several sets of footsteps clattered down the hall, but Spain didn’t pay attention to them. If Romano never got better, never, what would Spain do? He and Romano had been politically separate for a long time. Their economies depended on much more than just each other. What reason would Romano have to come and visit if he honestly didn’t care? Diplomatic missions? Would Spain only see him across meeting tables at conferences? In hallways? …that wouldn’t be enough. He refused to accept that as enough.

“Spain?”

Belgium hadn’t seen Romano willingly sit in Spain’s lap in centuries, not since when Roma had been a lonely little protectorate struck with a bad case of chorea. Then he had thrashed in Spain’s arms, true, but he had blamed everything on the disease. And for that instance she had believed him. In the present, Romano, arms at his sides, rested his head on Spain’s shoulder and stared out the window. He didn’t look up at the sound of her voice.

The Netherlands stepped into the room after his sister. “Romano?” He wound his way around Japan and the bags, and stopped a few feet away from the sofa. It was the closest he’d come to Spain in several years. “How do you feel?”

Romano began to pull at a loose thread on Spain’s sleeve. “Fine.”

Across the room, Japan started marking more notes on a fresh pad of paper. “As Romano-san’s acting physician, I must ask you to please step away from the patient, Netherlands-san.” He finished his last character with a flourish and clicked his pen shut. “He may be contagious, and I do not have enough skill points at this time to discover a cure for the disease.”

Belgium peered over Japan’s shoulder but couldn’t read anything other than **’LOVE LOVE’** in the middle of his notes. “I didn’t know you were a doctor, Japan.” He inclined his head humbly. “A doctor with UNSICK even! My boss didn’t tell me there were any nations on the UNSICK team.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “I see… has your boss been doing well, Belgium-san?”

“I guess you coul— wait, Japan, why are you—”

He lifted his head, narrowed his eyes, and for a second she could see the shrewdness that kept a nation going for thousands of years in their glint. “It supports the atmosphere, Belgium- _san_.”

Before Belgium could force out a flabbergasted reply, the Netherlands closed his eyes and decided it just wasn’t worth it. “It’s not a disease.”

The room stopped.

Belgium broke the silence, because someone had to, and all the other nations in the room were acting like children. “This is what I was telling you before, Spain. Netherlands _would like to tell you something._ ” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. If Netherlands thought she’d let him walk all over her, and Romano, and Spain by extension… he was one hundred percent wrong.

 

 

A pot to his left bubbled over. The fire underneath burned as brightly as ever. Steam rose from everything… and Veneziano breathed it all in. It smelled like beauty. It smelled like art, like truth, like victory. It smelled like the best pasta he’d ever prepared in his life, and if his brother had anything real left inside him, he would jump up shouting praises before the first noodle even passed his lips. Veneziano thought about not taking the time to properly plate his masterpiece, but even though Romano not yelling was really really weird, Romano yelling was scary, and he would definitely yell if Veneziano didn’t present the dish in a way befitting of pasta. Romano could be sick for a few minutes more.

Germany waited outside the kitchen door. When Belgium and the Netherlands had followed in Spain’s wake, Germany had considered joining them. And then he had realized that would mean leaving the kitchen to Veneziano’s mercy. Unfortunately, Veneziano had barricaded the door behind Germany, when he had stepped into the hall to see where Spain had run off to. But Germany had done his best to oversee the kitchen operations through the solid wood door. He hoped his management skills were good enough that something as simple as the remains of an old tree wouldn’t stop them.

“Ve…”

The door creaked open.

“Veneziano?”

“Ve, Germany?” Veneziano’s head peaked through the doorway, a serving bowl balanced on top. “Can you help me with these plates? Ve, that would be great thank you!”

Before Germany knew it, his arms were laden down with six different kinds of pasta and three different sauces, as well as eight plates, ten forks, three different spoons and a pitcher of water. Veneziano walked briskly past him ( _carrying considerably less_ ). “Ve, Germany, keep up!”

The water was heavily iced, and for that Germany was thankful. “Yes. Of course.” Although… “Veneziano. You are going the wrong way.”

Italy Veneziano stopped, left foot stuck in the air, right in front of Spain’s front door. Instinct had guided him in the kitchen, but maybe instinct wasn’t the best thing to listen to outside of it. Not now: now he had to listen to his inner Germany! “Ve, Germany, lead me to big brother Romano now or fifty laps! Ve, and no siestas! Wurst!”

Germany coughed. “Yes.”

Veneziano’s heart began to buzz while they walked. The closer he got to his brother, the more he knew: he held Romano’s cure in his hands ( _while Germany held Romano’s six other cures because all the food was really heavy, ve, Veneziano didn’t like carrying too much, it was bad for his health_ ). The universe would be all better and Veneziano would never have to shout again unless Germany tried to make him run, or a pretty lady wanted him to, or if someone said they’d give him pasta if he said “ ** _VE! POTATO BASTARD!_** ” as loudly as he could.

Romano usually made those deals once every few weeks, even more frequently after trade meetings at Germany’s house. And if Romano brought it up at Spain’s house, Veneziano wouldn’t even try and bargain some tiramisu into the deal like he normally would. He was _that_ worried.

Soon Germany recognized the double doors that led to Spain’s fourth third floor sitting room. Germany had recognized the sounds coming from behind them much earlier, but he preferred not to jump to conclusions; not when he had already begun to create an internal map of the passages in Spain’s home. He pulled the doors open. “They should be in here.”

They were. Japan and Belgium each held one of Spain’s arms back while he struggled furiously to get to the Netherlands, who had backed all the way up to the far wall. Romano stood in the middle of it all, and watched. Germany wished he hadn’t opened the door at all. But he knew what he had to do. “Cease this immediately!”

They didn’t.

He changed tracks. Japan and Belgium were both fairly strong, and Spain obviously felt more than slightly under the weather. But he was still strong enough to drag himself, Japan and Belgium step by shaky step closer to the Netherlands. “Sit down immediately!”

They didn’t.

“Ve! Romano! I have your pasta!”

They stopped.

“I’m not hungry.”

Veneziano blinked. He must have gotten dust in his eyes. His ears. He must have misheard, because Romano was never ‘not hungry,’ not when Veneziano had lovingly prepared a delicious feast _just for him_. “Ve, don’t be silly, big brother Romano! You’re really really hungry!” He motioned Germany to follow him inside the room and began to set the banquet up on a low table. “Try this one first, ve, it’s simple but you love simple things right?”

“What does that me—ermph!” A forkful of pasta stopped Romano’s calm, rational question halfway through. In the back of their minds, everyone else in the room thanked Veneziano, who only smiled and forced his older brother to eat. “St—stop that.”

“I can’t!” Veneziano did not appear particularly torn by the fact. “You like Penne all’Arrabbiata a whole lot, don’t you? I used extra peppers, ve, so you should eat some more, lots more!” He pulled the fork back, reloaded it on the plate, and returned it to Romano’s mouth. And repeated the process until Romano’s cheeks bulged and no more pasta could fit. “Ve, big brother Romano… you need to eat your pasta.”

Romano shook his head.

“Ve, big brother Romano… _eat your pasta_.”

Romano started to shake his head again, but stopped. He paused. And a moment later, he began to chew.

Veneziano dropped the fork in his hand. He had gotten his way. He had gotten his way without shouting or crying or begging. He’d gotten his way without having to remind Romano that he had family in Italy ( _wait…_ ). Veneziano had gotten his way, except was it really his way if Romano hadn’t fought back one bit? …it felt wrong. “Big brother?”

Romano nodded.

“Ve, Romano, do you feel like shouting and being angry and mean and telling Germany to go fuck himself in the middle of a busy street yet? Because, veeee, I really don’t want to. And somebody probably should.” Veneziano winked over Romano’s shoulder and tried to suppress any feeling but sunshine. “Nobody’s insulted Germany yet today and he probably feels really lonely, ve!”

Germany stared at a spot of mold beginning to form on the carpet and refused to look up. “Ah… I don’t think—”

“Can you repeat that, Netherlands-san?”

Across the room, Japan cleared his throat and waited for an answer. He continued pretending to struggle with Spain’s right arm. A quick hand and a needle full of anesthetic he had stolen from UNSICK earlier in the year had made holding Spain back from attacking the Netherlands fairly easy. But the point was that Spain was fighting passionately for Romano’s honor, and Japan would not deny him that. Even if he was swiftly starting to think that he had discovered the final key.

Regret flies fastest when you are dragged across international boundaries and forced to see the apathetic fruit of your handiwork refuse to eat his pasta happily ( _or nicely, or cutely, or joyfully, or…_ ). In the light of his regret, the Netherlands knew it just wasn’t worth it. “I bought it from America.” He scowled in Spain’s direction without actually having to look him in the eye. “So?”

“But why, Netherlands?” Belgium couldn’t understand it. The last time she’d checked, her brother liked Romano a lot. “Why would you try to poison Romano?”

The Netherlands’s scowl deepened, but at the same time the back of his neck reddened. “I wasn’t trying to poison him.”

Spain had been silent for too long. And as much as he wanted to do something about that he couldn’t, because between Japan’s elephant-grade anesthetic and the kerchief Belgium had shoved into his mouth, he couldn’t say anything at all. His hazy mind forced his tired eyes to glare full force at the Netherlands. Because even though the Netherlands had denied it ( _was continuing to deny it!_ ), what other possible reason could he have for buying a Super Magical Amazing Industrial-Strength Customized Personality Pill from America ( _ **damn** that America_ ) and feeding it to a poor, unsuspecting, hungry ( _and slightly greedy_ ) Romano? The Netherlands had to be lying. And Spain hated being lied to right to his face. Not when he couldn’t easily determine the truth. “ _Mmmmmf_ ”

“Spain-san, please. This game was only rated for Romano-san’s language.”

“Mmmmff?”

Japan didn’t bother to explain himself. He needed the Netherlands to finish delivering his exposition dialogue. “Netherlands-san, please. You must share with us the reason for your plot.” He chanced a glance back at the Italy brothers. They had been too quiet for too long. Japan could instantly tell why: Veneziano had begun to cry, little helpless salamander tears, and Romano hadn’t joined him. Germany stood useless to the side. The game had gone on for long enough. “Look at your friends, Netherland-san! How could you do such evil to them?! You must give us the cure!”

The Netherlands looked down at his sister’s sorrowful eyes, at Japan’s flushed face ( _he continued to refuse to look at Spain_ ). “America didn’t say there was one.”

“…Netherlands, I’m calling America now, and…”

“ ** _MMMMMMFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!_** ”

“V-v-veeeee, big brother, wh-why won’t you—it’s p-perfect, and I made it only for…for you, ve, and what are we going to d-do, ve, ve, _ve_ , I want you b-back…”

“…”

“Why are you all yelling?”

Japan let Spain’s arm fall and lowered his head until his hair covered his eyes. “ENOUGH!” The rest of the room ignored him, but Japan was fine with that as long as the log showed he had attempted to gain command of the situation. He had heard all he needed to know. He only wished he had equipped the right uniform underneath his doctor’s coat. But the details could all be added back in later. “Romano-san,” he tried not to give away his excitement as he walked quickly over to the other side of the living room, rolled up his right sleeve, pulled off his surgical glove and drew back his arm. “Please tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how this makes you feel.”

Spain’s eyes widened. Not _again_.

**SMACK**

Romano’s stomach was nowhere near as hard as Spain’s skull, but Japan’s hand still hurt from the force of his punch. And then Romano was grabbing his chest, and falling on Japan too, ah, and then he was retching and Japan desperately wished he had been warned about emetophilic content ahead of time. He awkwardly patted Romano lightly on the back while half-digested pasta and who knew what else slopped onto his formerly pure white coat and pooled against his shoes.

Eventually, Romano coughed and a small, electric blue something fell onto the floor.

The room swiveled to turn and face the Netherlands, who had been unable to look away from the scene. “…that’s it.” A chunk of plaster fell from the leaky ceiling and hit him in the face. It didn’t apologize, because frankly the Netherlands didn’t deserve it.

Spain watched Romano slowly fall towards the ground as his coughing ebbed, watched as Japan directed his shaking body away from the bile. He refused to let himself hope.

Which turned out to be incredibly silly. “ **F-fuck**.” Because with the drug out of his body, Romano felt. He felt sadness, pain, happiness, anger. But most of all he _felt_ , and if he wasn’t allowed to act on those feelings in the next second he would fucking break everything near him, dammit dammit **dammit**!

Then he realized nothing was stopping him.

He stood, shaky at first, but as he began to gain momentum his movements became sure, and he stomped over to his brother as loudly as he could before yanking the plate of pasta out of Veneziano’s hands and shoveling three quarters of the food into his mouth. He only barely bothered to chew while he simultaneously grabbed the pitcher of ice water, dumped half of it over Germany’s head, “get the fuck away from me fucker I never liked you!” gulped the rest down to momentarily calm the burning peppery buzz in his throat and scolded his stupid little brother. “Veneziano you shit-faced son of a whore and a frog’s dick what the fuck were you fucking thinking, dammit, this sauce needs _more fucking tomatoes_ how do you even fucking live with yourself?”

Romano whirled around.

“And you!”

Spain would have pointed at himself, but there was no time before he had carpet shoved up against the side of his face and Romano sitting on top of him, hitting and kissing him in turns. “Mmm, mmmf!” Romano ripped the handkerchief away. “Roma! You’re all better, I’m so—”

“ **You fucking** ,” his fist crashed into Spain’s jaw, “ **how dare you** ,” he straddled Spain’s hips, “ **call him cute** ,” elbowed him in the stomach, “ **dammit you fucking bastard why are you still wearing clothes?!** ” and for the first time in hours, let all his various tensions out.

Japan pulled one of his bags closer and rifled through it without looking away. He found his video camera right where he'd left it and, light-headed, began to film the best, most furiously flexible ending scene he had seen in a long time.

“Ve,” Veneziano pulled Germany’s attention away from the swiftly drying mold and back to the heated reconciliation. “Look!” Germany politely tried not to. “Big brother Romano is normal again! …ve, Germany,” the sparkle in his eye matched the light flooding the room, “don’t you love happy endings?”

 

 

_A few hours later…_

His eyes felt heavy, but Spain blinked them awake anyway. He had a knack for sleeping anywhere, but that didn’t mean that he liked to sleep in uncomfortable positions for long. “Mmm…” He stretched his cramped arms and turned to face the day. Instead of the day, his nose brushed up against a foot. His cheek scraped against the rough edge of a fork, and for a minute Spain had no idea what was going on, until he realized the foot was Romano’s and the plate of half-eaten pasta the fork belonged to was still on the bed a few feet to his left. “Roma?”

Romano huffed and tried to shove something in his sleep.

Spain tried to keep quiet, “so cute Romano never change,” but failed miserably.

“Urgh.” Romano clutched his head between his hands as he sat up. It felt like two centuries of hangovers had crushed his brains into pulp and whispered to the remains that everyone liked Veneziano better for good measure. “The fuck are you doing down there?”

Something in Spain’s mind clicked. This was familiar. Again. _Again._ “Roma please don’t tell me you don’t remember losing your emotions and jumping me and can you move your legs a bit the handcuffs are digging into my thighs, thanks, and I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t remember, because if True Love’s Mutual Oral doesn’t work on memory loss then I don’t think anything _will_ , and—”

Romano wished for a second that he’d woken up alone. Oh well. At least he hadn’t woken up to Spain cuddling him and cooing in his ear ( _that was fucking creepy, okay?_ ). “Shut up. I didn’t forget anything, dammit, I just wanted to know why you were sleeping in such a fucking stupidass way.”

Spain cocked his head to the side, realized Romano had not only told the truth but had told it with annoyed impatience, and laughed. “It’s because I fell asleep afterwards, and sleeping while holding myself up over you would be really tiring for my arms, so I had to give them a rest. I didn’t think you’d really mind and oh, here, let me get that—” he sat up to run his hands cheerfully through Romano’s hair. “You don’t think about how messy this is until afterwards, huh?” His smile lost a little of its intensity. “It’s not coming out…”

Pasta was important to Romano. Sex was important to Romano. Veneziano was important to Romano ( _fat chance he’d ever say so_ ). Spain’s opinion was important to Romano as well, although Romano would rather eat America’s ‘pizza’ than admit it. Many things were important to Romano.

Some things were more important to Romano than others.

“ **WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who followed this fill on the kink meme, and everyone who's reading it now. <3
> 
> Penne all’Arrabbiata: angry pasta! N.Italy wanted his brother to receive the angry power of angry sauced pasta. Too bad Japan had to go and steal the show.
> 
> emetophilia: vomit fetish, but you probably could have guessed that from context.
> 
> **WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?** : Yes, the entire punch line of the epilogue is:
> 
> Romano: Alright, I got out all my pent-up emotions about you trying to sex me up, and you insulting me, and all that other stuff. That didn’t take too long.
> 
> Spain: Whoops, jizzed in your hair.
> 
> Romano: WTF YOU _BITCH_.
> 
> …His appearance is important to him?


End file.
